Everie had read somewhere, once, that one can never truly appreciate the value of something until they have lost it. It was an old maxim, passed around by word-of-mouth rather than the scripture. That meant it was an adage from an age long past, before even the desolation - the formation of the wastes, and the rise of the Brass Cities, following the departure of the gods, demons, and their magic.
She hadn’t thought much of the saying in the past. After all, there had been hardly anything she could value in life; she had no parents, no family, no existence. Food was scarce at the best of times, and the cult sent her on assassinations that grew riskier every time she exposed herself to the civilized public. Despite that, the priests were confident none of their vaunted ‘holy virgins’ would ever dare escape.
After all, where would they run to? The entire world hated them.
Even then, though, there had been things to look forward to. And now that Everie knew gods and demons were not just propagandist parables used by enterprising men, but actual evils that still existed in the world, that appreciation had only increased. In an existence wherein a single, all-encompassing entity could arrogate one’s entire livelihood, even the smallest freedoms seemed valuable.
Say, for example, the act of walking. It was a fundamental part of one’s livelihood, and thereby one of the gifts sophont beings tended to overlook the most. Everie had been no exception.
Now, though, after four months of constant practice - even with her comparatively enhanced infant body - Everie was ready to do anything short of joining another cult to get back the rest of her previous bodily functions. She had finally attained the ability to stand, albeit with the assistance of physical supports, a month prior. Now, she was steadily progressing to being able to walk independently, of her own accord.
Then, she would be able to explore the manor grounds freely, and cause even more of a headache for Daphne. The poor girl, Everie thought, satirically.
At least Everie was almost to the point wherein she could use the bathroom on her lonesome. That should take some of the burden off her nanny’s shoulders.
As Everie toddled through the manor, keeping one palm flat on the corridor walls in case she fell, Daphne tottered behind her. She wasn’t waving her hands frantically and screaming, like she did the first few times Everie thought it would be a good idea to run out and explore the mansion. But she was speaking to Everie, with a rather reproachful - if marred by the tint of amusement from her antics - tone of voice.
“Young miss,” she sighed, and Everie could almost psychically sense the disapproving look Daphne had fixed on her without even facing the girl herself. “Visiting the manor library is- well, ‘s fine, but please. I could just carry you there! What if-”
Everie turned with some difficulty, deadpanning. Daphne flinched, then frowned, as Everie rolled her eyes.
“It’s fine, Daphne. I can do this,” Everie grumbled. Her voice was still a little slurred and was also awfully high-pitched, but it was sufficient for basic communication. Her half-assed understanding of the language was all Everie could produce from only auditory data - though, she was hoping to change that today.
She made sure to add a ‘cute’ flair to all her actions - well, as best as she could, at least; Everie didn’t actually know how infants acted, but Everie thought she could act sufficiently well so as to reduce suspicion of her being a reincarnated entity inhabiting the infant body of a ducal heiress.
She was pretty sure some children learned to read and walk in a few months’ time, even in her old world.
Oh, well, she thought, sighing. Even if that’s not the case, I won’t inhibit myself by acting like a regular child. Hells believe it, those three months without walking were stifling.
It seemed that was enough to melt Daphne’s - admittedly, not- so-well-constructed - professional-maid exterior, because she finally relented. “Alright, miss. Just don’t hurt yourself, alright? And I’m carrying you down the staircase, no matter what.”
Everie rolled her eyes. She couldn’t understand why this girl was being so fussy. It wasn’t like even normal children required constant supervision and guidance, after all! Not even the control-freaks in the cult of Zabaniya were like that.
It didn’t occur to Everie until much later that… perhaps she shouldn’t be judging ethics and civil values by the standards of her old world.
They reached the end of the corridor, and, as promised, Daphne carried her down the grand staircase. The library was situated in the west wing, adjacent to the Duke - meaning Haswalth’s - study. In his absence, Briar had taken to occupying it.
From the sound of it, Briar was also taking care of the Manor’s finances while he was gone; Everie had heard the maidstaff chittering about a border war on the eastern front of the Kingdom of Azer Luceras, which she presumed was the country she had been born in. That, at least, explained why she hadn’t seen her father in the nearly- five months since she’d been born.
Some things are the same in every world, then, thought Everie, sighing.
As they passed by the portrait of the great Ancestor, both Everie and Daphne stilled. The painting was exactly the same as usual, meaning it felt eerily lifelike.
Everie shivered, and her Well throbbed. By the time Daphne had exited the staircase, Everie felt sweat slick her palms.
That was another part of her body Everie had refused to touch since then; she simply didn’t know enough about magic to reliably experiment with this new power. With luck, though, she’d be able to begin her research into the specifics of ether and magic today.
All her questions would be answered in the Great Medean library.
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Everie had snuck into the Manor library only once before.
She’d been caught by Briar immediately, who’d moved the veritable mountain of paperwork she seemed to live in to the library a day prior. Briar had extracted a promise from her not to visit the library ‘till she could walk by her lonesome, and at least speak properly: a vow Everie had stuck to, however reluctantly.
Now, though, Everie thought with satisfaction, I’m coming to collect my dues.
The Medean library was a work of art. Like the rest of the house, it was constructed out of blackwood that had been shaped into elegant arches stretching three stories high, embossed with hieroglyphs and miniscule engravings. Sunlight from the summer sky filtered in through a skylight hidden somewhere behind a delicate criss-cross of scaffolding, from which silver chandeliers hung, dripping with gemstones that absorbed and provided illumination using that same light.
It was luxury beyond anything Everie had ever seen before. Even the wealthiest palaces of her previous life hadn’t held anything as awe- inspiring as this. At least, the ones that were still intact.
The real clincher, though, were the actual books themselves. The bookshelves they were ensconced within seemed carved straight out of the walls themselves. Some sort of magic must have been used to preserve them, because for a hall that was supposedly as old as the manor itself - meaning almost a thousand years old - the shelves had retained that crisp quality freshly-cut wood possesses. They stretched from floor to ceiling; the uppermost volumes required one to cross three flights of stairs and enter the scaffolding to reach.
And within each shelf lay hundreds of books. There were thick volumes; thin volumes; encyclopedia, embossed with elegant designs; dictionaries, thicker than Everie’s waist; individual sheafs of paper - presumably ancient manuals or notes; blueprints and diagrams for magical tools; legal or fiscal papers; scrolls, tucked neatly into cubicles.
It was a treasure trove, and Everie was going to plunder it.
Granted, Everie hadn’t exactly been a scholar in her previous life. She hadn’t had the time, nor the motivation for it; but after her loss, novels had been one of the few pleasures she’d engaged in. Not to mention the fact that many of the nameless mixed-martial arts techniques Everie had taught herself were from the cult archives.
Couches and armchairs littered the library at sporadic intervals. Some had been obviously occupied. Most were bare; while the servants could technically use the library, most refrained out of decorum or fear. Thus, the library really only had a single regular visitor- who happened to be approaching them at the very moment.
Everie steeled herself as best she could, but nevertheless failed to contain her squeal as her Daphne - that traitor - transferred her to Briar, who gave her a bear hug. She staggered back - for an ill woman, Briar had an awfully strong embrace.
She rubbed her arms, scowling, as Briar dropped her onto the armchair she’d been occupying. “Hello, mama,” she said, painting a smile on her face. Everie was no stranger to acting - it had been a necessary part of her former occupation. “I came to see the library today.”
Briar smiled faintly, ruffling her hair. Everie allowed it. “You’ve grown fast, haven’t you?”
“Almost too fast,” Daphne snorted. Then her eyes widened. “Not to say that’s a bad thing, miss! It’s just-”
Briar laughed. “No, I understand, Daphne. It must have been quite a pain, keeping this little disaster contained. She reminds me a little of myself, back when I was younger.”
Everie swallowed.
“She kicked around my stomach so often we were afraid at one point she’d tire herself to death,” reminisced Briar. “There was a moment the doctor couldn’t sense her dormant signature-” she coughed. “But everything turned out fine in the end.”
Everie felt a sense of shame well up in her. She was, after all, living off the kindness of people that thought she was one of their own, when in fact she was an interloper. Everie wasn’t deprecatory so as to think any of this was her fault - she hadn’t chosen to die, after all, and neither had she chosen to possess this body.
But, though Everie still didn’t trust Briar - or even Daphne, for that matter, and certainly not Cherry or the other maidstaff - it was apparent they loved her. Or at least, they thought they loved her.
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.
Lying hurt.
Despite that, Everie maintained her facade. Nothing good would come to either party from the truth coming out.
“I can walk and talk properly now. I kept my promise, mama,” she said, spinning - though she was a little wobbly - in her dress, to demonstrate. “So I want to learn to read.”
“As a half-year-” Daphne muttered, incredulity straining her voice. Briar blinked, before a smile stretched across her face.
“I suppose we’ll have to get you started early, then,” she said, before glancing at Daphne. “You’ll teach her, won’t you?”
Daphne sighed. “It’s part of my job description, my lady. I did earn a certificate as a semi-professional tutor at the academy.”
“And you know your way around the library,” Briar said, nodding. “My daughter’s the inquisitive type, though, so just make sure she doesn’t climb onto the scaffolding, alright?”
Everie blinked. “You were a teacher?”
Daphne stilled, before grinning. “That’s right, miss. Got my undergrad from the Therellian Aristocrat’s academy years before - same school as your mother! T’was an early graduate, too. Was going to get my doctorate, but...” she trailed off, a sad expression replacing her previously jovial, wistful one.
Briar, as if sensing her distress, quickly snapped them both out of their conversation. “The point remains,” she said, coughing, “Daphne is more than skilled enough to serve as your early-years tutor, at least before I figure out where to send you for college. Mama will be here, working, so if you need me, don’t hesitate to call, alright?”
Everie hesitated, before giving the woman a hug, which she returned with what felt like a hundred times the strength. It felt oddly soothing.
They walked to a corner of the library that had not yet been devastated by Briar. Daphne had found a book on basic grammar from somewhere, as well as some other volume. Everie had learned sometime before that the language used in Azer Luceras was common.
While other local dialects existed, common was generally accepted as the international medium, which made it an obvious first choice to Everie.
By the time Everie sat down next to Daphne, the girl had already begun leafing through the textbooks she had acquired. From over the binder, Everie could see the basics of the vernacular on display: the alphabet, which she already knew, and then the grammatical rules and various nonsensical patterns she had spent hours puzzling over.
Everie could already read the words; albeit, of course, with much difficulty. Common was not so different from the original international dialect she knew, which was called Basic, but was nevertheless not something one could master out of pure intuition.
Still, though, as Daphne thumbed through the aging textbook, furrowing her golden eyebrows, Everie couldn’t help but notice the other volume - a monster of a volume, thicker than Everie’s waist - she’d brought to their little corner of the library.
“What is that?” Everie asked, frowning.
Daphne blinked, her gazing trailing past Everie’s extended finger to the resting volume. “Oh,” she said, smiling. “It’s just a book of legend. Though I suppose it’s not really legend, now that I think ‘bout it.”
“Legend?”
“‘Bout the Heroes,” said Daphne. “And the Aerith. Think I told you ‘bout them sometime before, though. Can’t quite recall when...” she trailed off, frowning. “Anyway, I read this to you a lot when you were still a wee little thing. Understandable that you don’t remember much of it, though.”
“No,” Everie said, simply. “I think I remember. It’s just...”
She squinted at the volume, her eyes raking across the covers. It was a beautiful thing; ancient for certain, and bound in embroidered fabric. A pictographic representation of two feathers, crossed, surrounding a fractal orb, decorated the visage of the book.
It was a wholly unfamiliar mix of imagery. But like the painting from before, there was something...
Everie picked up the book; or at least, she tried to, before falling backwards on her ass. She involuntarily pouted, glared at Daphne, and pointed at the book.
“I wanna read that first, Daph-nee.”
The girl in question blinked. “Huh? Weren’t you the one that wanted to learn to read-”
Everie shook her head, cutting Daphne off. “No. I can understand you properly now,” she said. “I’m curious, now.”
She waddled over and placed her palm on the cover of the book. In response, her soul quivered.
I can’t grow complacent. There’s a mystery here to uncover, and I might’ve just found the first clue to it.
Never thought it’d be in some storybook, but here we are. If the thing inside me and the Crying-Demon’s fragment is resonating from nearing it, then learning from it takes priority.
Daphne blinked. “You- young miss, are you sure? Some of the words in this are pretty hard, so...”
Everie’s gaze hardened. “That doesn’t matter.”
Her maid stared down at her. Everie knew she wasn’t exactly doing a spectacular job at keeping the infant facade up, but she was losing the drive to even care.
“Alright, then,” sighed Daphne. “Whatever you say, miss.”
—
It didn’t take long for her to discover an explanation of how magic generally functioned. A thousand-page volume of something called an Elegy of Ether, by some person named Inesorin, had elaborated on the matter quite thoroughly. With Daphne’s assistance, Everie was able to parse what information she needed.
Simply put, her general suspicions had been correct; ether was the energy that Everie had been passively absorbing. Certain individuals are able to collect enough energy to amass it into a spiritual ‘core’ - a medium of control.
What she had not known was that there were very clear-cut, well- defined stages to this growth. Core progression was divided into Nine Layers, with each layer requiring an increasing number of ‘stages’ to advance. The first layer required seven; the ninth layer required fifteen. In total, there were a hundred stages from start to finish - each requiring ever-finer control, more ether, and Insight, or understanding, to achieve.
Magic, Inesorin had written, is a journey. It is a travail to the great beyond. Thus, the Elegy of Ether is one that leads to the creation of a path through all the Layers of Existence, of which there are Nine.
Beyond that, Everie learned, lay divinity. Immortality. A chance to ‘ascribe one’s name onto the halls of universal law.’
While each ‘path’ one took to achieve divinity was different, Inesorin explained, two Heroes - the physiologist, and the mother of magic - had created ‘guidances’ for mages to pursue. One was called the Path of the Chanter - a path for magicians - and the Path of the Breaker - a path for warriors. But in the end, both were just that - guidances.
To truly reach divinity, Inesorin had regaled, one must truly embrace their inner selves.
Some people discovered their Paths upon awakening. Others discovered them much later - upon reaching the fourth layer, or even the seventh layer, which were considered the benchmarks for progression: the fourth to sixth being called the arch-stages, while the seventh to ninth being called the demigod stages.
Most, however, never discovered their Paths at all.
There was also some vague talk about Chanting requiring something called ‘actualization’, and Breaking stipulating a skill called ‘literalization’, but those were too esoteric for Everie to fully understand in a single night of reading, even with Daphne’s assistance.
So for now, she left it at that.
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Like every other day, both Daphne and Everie - the latter firmly ensconced in the former’s arms - stilled before the portrait of the Ancestor.
No matter how hard Everie squinted, flexing her newfound senses so hard that she felt her Well tremble - at which point she promptly stopped, remembering her vow to not mess around with her magic - she couldn’t detect anything being out of place. The ether the object contained was no different in density or quality from any of its surroundings.
While that should have been a comforting revelation, it only increased Everie’s paranoia. It was an instinct she’d picked up in her previous life; when she was watched, she knew. And frustration; she just swore there was something hiding inside the damn thing. It had to be mocking her. It was infuriating-
Ugh, she thought. Whatever. Nothing you can do about it anyway. At least with luck, that won’t be for long.
Daphne hummed to herself as she resumed her walk up the stairs, Everie in tow. Even as they moved away from the painting, though, she felt that same feeling of doubt and fear of being watched niggle at the back of her mind.
Another two months had passed. Everie’s new body had grown shockingly fast in that time; walking had returned to her as a skill of little to no consequence - a luxury she enjoyed immensely. Never again, she thought, will I take anything for granted. Not even that.
And especially not the absolute flagrant opulence that surrounded her, providing Everie with creature comforts she couldn’t have possibly imagined in her previous world. And it didn’t just extend to this one mansion.
Everie had been born in what she approximated to be winter, but it had been six months since then. By now, the permafrost - storm- spirits, Daphne had called it, but Everie was sure that was simple folk ignorance - had long since passed. With it, the sleet had also vanished, giving Everie full view of the city extending down into the valley that the ‘father’ she’d only seen once thus far ruled over.
They were passing by those same graceful, finely-carved windows now. Morning sunlight shone over the great city of Medea, glinting off of row after row of gently arching rouge-black rooftops. Flatstone and slate pavements stretched in a criss-crossing grid for miles, jam-packed with pedestrians, hecklers, and passing caravans. There were no obviously mechanical vehicles, like in Everie’s previous world, but to her continuing surprise, some of the larger wagons floated off of the ground, similar to the spell Daphne had used on her - only on a much greater scale. The tell-tale runic symbology inscribed on their sides told her all she needed to know.
Not all of the city seemed out of a classic medieval fresco, either. Apertures on the sides of certain buildings and on select spots in the city exposed a mass of rotating silver gearworks, each funneling a truly massive amount of ether across the city. Everie could only guess what it was used for, but some of the public conveniences she’d seen - the streetlamps dotting every street and avenue, for one - seemed to have some relation with the elaborately constructed system.
The city stretched until it met an abrupt stop at a straight line of dense woodland in the east, and what looked like practically endless fields of some blackish stalk at noon. There were orchards and farms raising other varieties far-off to the north of the manor - the direction this window depicted - and what looked like another city, this one built on top of a stone mountain and styled more as a fort, so far off to the north-east it was hardly visible.
Unlike the Brass Cities, there were no skyscrapers. Apparently, neither were there any churches, or massive statues and murals. Medea might not have been as architecturally - or even technologically impressive - as the golden metropolises of her previous life, but the sheer cohesion, efficacy, and equity of the magic at display made even the richest districts of her previous world pale in comparison.
And, Everie thought, anger tinting her mind. Unlike in my world, there are no wastes in this land I have been reborn in. And, as far as I know, no cults.
Why was my world so much worse off?
She sighed, unclenching her fists. Daphne had already passed by that part of the hallway, closing onto their destination: the Great Manor Dining Hall.
Most, thought Everie, as a pair of uniformed maids bowed to her and ushered Daphne into the hall, places with the name ‘Great’ after them use that title as a crutch. But that rule sure as the Hells doesn’t apply to this place.
Briar was already seated at one of the two chairs at the head of the absolutely massive blackwood table. Breakfast - more than one adult and a child could possibly eat - had already been laid out on the table in front of the woman. Veal and sausage and salad and potatoes and some sort of darkish bread that looked like it’d been made of that same black stalk Everie had seen being grown outside the city borders.
The current head of house, however, was mostly fixated on the papers she was reading; some economic treatise, resplendent with complex graphs and technical jargon Everie couldn’t understand at her current state. Two months had been more than enough time for her to learn to read - much to Daphne’s, who’d been flummoxed at her ‘growth,’ mystified disbelief - but actual academic work was a bit too much for her.
Case in point had been the storybook Everie had demanded Daphne read to her. She understood it, but...
Not the time, Everie reminded herself, as Briar gave Everie her customary smothering- hug. First, breakfast.
It was her first time in the dining hall, after all, and she was excited to taste real food.
It wasn’t until a few minutes later that, much to Everie’s indignation, weaning meant she had to suffer a new terror: the baby bottle